Making It Stop
by Tequila Sunrise
Summary: Spike just wants to help.
1. Make it stop

She always curls in my lap, asking questions I can't answer. Why it hurts, why it won't ever stop, why she can go through her day with the deepest part of her numbed. Asks about God, a lot, too. What he's like, why he couldn't stop it, what color is his hair. I tell her green, and it's the first time in seventy-three days she almost smiles.  
  
She begs me, every day, to make it stop. We've lasted seventy-three days since Buffy died, and we're all doing our best. Lives are being lived, if more quietly... but Dawn stopped. She stopped trying, and stopped living up there on that tower. I've tried everything, yelling, snuggling, even bought her a puppy to take care of. Damn thing would starve if not for me. Loves Dawn, though she cares nothing for it.  
  
It kills me all over again, every time she starts crying, head tipped back on my shoulder, sobs pulling at her. I push the hair away from her forehead, petting, petting, kissing her cheek, her throat, mumbling that I know, that I can help, even though we both know I'm a miserable useless bastard. With her head back on my shoulder, and mine dropped forward on hers, I wonder how long it'll be till I take that next step, let my teeth drop into her buttery soft neck and finally make it end for both of us.

AN: Charas aren't mine, -gasp-... This was partly inspired by Dishwalla's "Counting Blue Cars". PLease send feedback. It's always appreciated.

Tequila


	2. Am I pretty?

For FreakyGreenEyes, who I believe is the only person who ever reads my stories anymore. -wink- Um... not mine, and all that jazz. I give you. Chapter two.  
  
I stand in awe, silently in the doorway to the kitchen, as Dawn sits, fiddling over homework I always try to make her do.  
  
She's staring up at me with those big blue eyes, bigger than the world, deeper than the ocean, more telling than a song. I've come to realize recently that my universe survives in those eyes; fringed, cradled in thick black eyelashes that she's coated in mascara, accenting the shape of them.  
  
Things haven't been better, not really. But I noticed, yesterday, that she snuggled that damn dog. She still cries, still scrapes sharp nails over her arms when she begs me to make me it stop. Maybe tomorrow she'll eat a meal without me standing over her while she finishes it.  
  
But tonight, she's looking up at me with those big eyes, asking me if I think she's pretty. I almost choke on my laughter. Is she pretty. She's a Summers. But I don't tell her that, because when people refer to her mum, or big sis, those eyes cloud even more, and my universe shrinks, dampens, threatens to fall.  
  
So I tell her everything I wish I could have said to Buffy. That she's amazing, more powerful than the sun, more beautiful and forgiving than the moon, and her laugh sparkles more than the stars.  
  
I tell her the things I wish I had told Joyce, how kind, and brilliant, and loving she was to me; creative and caring as well, strong and safe as houses.  
  
But I tell her everything -she- is to me as well. Everything I'm going to tell her now, so I never regret it. That her smile makes a soul unnecessary, and I'll do anything to keep it there. That she resurrects the poet in me, makes me wish I could find the words to how she blinds me. She's my hope, my proof to goodness in the world. My church, my creed, my faith, and my dearest treasure. And when I run out of words, I look down at my hands, then back at the embodiment of my reverse karma.  
  
And the awe returns to steal what I haven't needed in a hundred years, my breath, as she returns to her Algebra, a smile turning her lips. 


	3. Pizza or Chinese

Part/Chapter 3 inspired in part by Siouxsie & the Banshee's "Happy House" and Billy Idol's "Mark of Caine". Standard disclaimers apply. Ya know... I don't bite reviewers. In fact... I usually give them big kisses. -wink- And folks do say I'm pretty. -bats eyes- God, do I have to slut myself out more? Just review, kay? Thanks ever so. Kisses.  
  
Tequila  
  
When I smell the blood, my first thought is she's cut herself in the shower, shaving. Bloody careless, that one. But there's no sweet soapy shower scent that drifts through the house when my girl is bathing, no curse word she echoes, first heard from my charming mouth. And it's richer, though not as rich as she smells on her monthlies. I know every scent Dawn puts off, at any given time, at any place. This is new.  
  
My feet are gliding across the carpet, and up the stairs before I register it, my mouth and stomach completely confused. Both want it, both are sickened by it. Rolling and growling at the same time.  
  
I don't knock, because if my duchess is bleeding, privacy isn't an issue. She doesn't see me at first, which is good, because I have no idea what's on my face.  
  
She's sitting in the center of her bed, down to those knickers I barely let her buy, with the longer leg, all purple, and the matching tank top with the guitar on it. One leg is cocked at the knee, the truly small pearing knife fitted to her palm is making shallow, short cuts, barely on the side of her thigh.  
  
Her face is screwed up, wincing, jaw tensing at the first bite of pain, but it smoothes, a little, to almost moan when the blood begins to flow.  
  
The tiny frown stays between her eyebrows, but tilts her head back, a smile tipping the corners of her mouth.  
  
I'm vamped, I can feel it, the ridges, the bumps, that smell getting so much more intoxicating. I've got her hair fisted in one hand before either of us is aware of it, the other wrapping so tightly around her wrist, I can feel the bone straining to take the pressure. Knife drops noiselessly to the mattress, and she whimpers in pain.  
  
"Is that what you want, little one?" I hiss at her. "Does the pain make it go away?"  
  
She's crying out, and fuck if I can't care. This has gone too far, and we're blood well stopping it now. Pushing her skull against the cherry headboard, that hand clamps down on her leg, blood smearing between my fingers, digging into the cut slightly. The pain is sizzling, pricking every nerve ending in my body with electricity, fingernails scraping them raw, making my vision brighter than the day lit sky, but blacking out small spots at the corner of my vision. My grip doesn't falter, but finally she sobs, and I know I'm placing finger-shaped bruises alongside her cuts, and that makes me more ill than the chip.  
  
Jesus Bloody Christ, my head is gonna explode. I can feel it. But she's looking at me, dreamily desperate, and I can't help but wonder what pushed her to this today.  
  
"It feels so good," she whispers through her tears, "but it keeps coming back... no matter how deep... it always comes back."  
  
"Oh Jesus, kitten." And I'm pulling her into my lap, an awkward tangle of too-long legs, and clumsy fingers, petting her, one hand still clamped on her leg, trying to make the bleeding stop, and it's then I notice pale, white lines touching her body here and there, almost unnoticeable. It makes me shudder, and I'm holding her more tightly, whispering all the things I shouldn't ever.  
  
That she can't do this because she's the only thing keeping me here. The only thing I get up for, drink for, fight for, and if she's gone, foster- care or dead, I'm done. Sun bath at high noon. That she's all I dream, and smell, and see. That I'm terrified that my entire existence, all hundred and twenty-three years are wrapped up in her tiny, fragile, tangle of blood, skin, and doe eyes that can break at any time, that I can feel slipping away, and fuck it all, I'm not ready to quit yet.  
  
But if she does, I will, too. Because there can't be a tomorrow without the dawn. And didn't she know that's what she was? Not a key, or some mystical energy. Dawn. The rise of a new beginning.  
  
She's quiet now, rubbing the material of my jeans between her fingertips reflexively, eyes open and contemplative, and my universe inside them is shifting with her tides. She carefully pries my hand away from her thigh, and we both inspect it in silence. It'll heal. 'Most everything does. But for right now, it's a macabre rainbow of blood, both fresh and almost dried, black spots of darkest bruises, fading to a blue, to a green, to a iodine swab yellow where my fingers' pressure didn't quite reach maximum.  
  
Leaning her head back on my shoulder, she looks up at me, tells me she's hungry.  
  
I almost laugh, but I can feel the hysterical edge to it before it leaves my mouth, and I clamp down on it. So I smile reassuringly at her. "All right, Duchess," I tell her. "Pizza or Chinese?"


	4. Baptismal

All right. Making it stop 4. I've done three different drafts, none of them alike, but this was the only one I could finish. Inspired in equal parts by Bob Dylan's "Tangled Up in Blue", The Clash's "London Calling", and the death of my beloved blue betta fish that I had been blessed for twoand a halfyears with, Sid. He was an asshole, just like his counter-part, but loveable all the same. He will be missed, and I loved him. I don't own any of the aforementioned, or Buffypeople,not even Sid, who just graced me with his presence.

Always love,  
a slightly grieving,  
Tequila Sunrise.

I don't know why, but it's different tonight, the Jack is cruising through my system, slowly burning away everything that doesn't belong. Or maybe it belongs, I'd just rather it didn't. It amazes me I can still get drunk, this drunk. I know better. The leaden weight of my limbs, while my head is in the clouds she has to be in... It's magnificent, and I can't recall why I don't do this more often.

Staring down into my lap, looking at my hands, I remember why, and it's hard to not resent her. And worship her. It's incredible how the others pass her over, like she's not of great import, like she's a nuisance. She was chosen. Maybe not by some higher power, but it hardly matters. She was saved. To be the son Abraham would sacrifice to save all else. And all right, maybe it's just a little sacrilegious... But she was saved.

But she didn't need someone to die for her, I know it. I know it, and I hate it... She needs someone to live for her. That's not something anyone's been willing to do so far. Something she hasn't even been willing to do for herself lately.

I'm climbing the steps to her room before my mind registers it. I've kept close eye on her, since she took to playing with sharp objects. She's sleeping, my pretty pretty princess Duchess Dawnie sleeping. Christ, I'm drunk. I'm shaking her before I realize it, pulling her blankets off, laying next to her. God, her heat. She's never hot. Just... warm, snuggling blanket on cold winter days I can barely remember anymore, except for the comfort, and I kind of hate her for making me worry that it'll go away.

She's making sleepy-whine noises at me, burying her face in my chest, and I'm pulling her back up, kissing her forehead. "Good morning, sweet bit," I croon.

Her eyes flutter open, and she knows. You can see how safe she feels with me, but I'm not interested in her being safe from the world tonight. "You're drunk."

I simply shrug, pulling her by her hands to a sitting position, handing her a hoodie and flip flops. "You would be, too, kitten. Up, up, poppa Spike's got something to teach his little girl."

She's rubbing the sleep from her eyes, sitting on the edge of her bed pulling on her soft pink hoodie over the blue tank top and underwear she sleeps in, covered in little rainbows and clouds. Deceptively juvenile. She thinks they're cute. Are, I suppose, in a pervy kind of way. I shrug, crouching, sliding the poor excuses of shoes onto her feet, kissing the top of her exposed left foot.

We hold hands down the stairs, and I think Dawn feels it's more for me. Her Spike is drunk tonight, and it makes her a little nervous, a little resigned. When I pull the keys to that fuckin' SUV down from the rack, though, Dawn puts her darling size 8 foot down.

"No. You don't drive when you're drunk. It's against the law." Can see the worry in her face, could wreck, could be hurt. S'me she's worried for, couldn't give a shit less about herself.

Her face between my hands, I whisper into her ear, "Been driving since they made these things. Been drinking longer. Besides, could never wreck with cargo as precious as you." Can feel her smile stretch the skin under my hands, and I've won.

She resigns herself, and I sit still while she straps us both in, and watches idly out the window, palm trees, stars, and suburbia slipping by. She's got one foot up on the seat, resting her cheek against her knee. Shit. Was a little too drunk, kitten doesn't have britches. S'all right, she won't need them soon enough.

I hate it that she doesn't even ask where we're headed. If she'll like it, if anything could go wrong.

I love it that she doesn't even ask where we're headed. If she'll like it, if anything could go wrong.

In less than fifteen minutes, Dawn is still staring out the window, scenery changed to the highway, hand over mine on the gearshift, and her hair is still whipping around her face, big blue eyes watching me carefully.

There's an old song on the radio, and usually I'd turn the shit off. Dylan. Wanker has an undeniable storytellin' skill, but he's also got an undeniable whine around the edges if he's not careful. If Dylan is anything, it's precise, but not in any way careful. It's a song about a woman, and I can't help but croon along a little bit, and even I know there's a charm to his twang, his plaintive noise, though mine's softer, it's there. Her fingers slid between mine, and the line makes me ache.

"I seen a lot of women, but she never escaped my mind... And I just grew... tangled up in Blue." Her lips curve softly. Even though there's a beautiful recklessness to Dawn, that makes her rave for Iggy, and Gen X, and the Clash more than the Ramones, and the Pistols more than Siouxie. But there's a softness that she's tried hard to shed- not shed. Tear. Tear off of herself, ripping and screaming every inch of it. But it's there. And that part of her, a little blend of the gorgeously painful mess inside of her, makes her love this man. That he makes her smile is enough for me to call him a genius of his age.

But Dylan's got a point. The great loves... You can't escape them. You can move on, and up or down, or sideways if you please, but you still stay tangled up in them. Rest of your life, however long it is... You always see them, in your mind, in your heart, where ever.

But we're there now, and Dawn is dozing again, head lolling against the back rest. Turning the car off, unbuckling us both, and opening the doors doesn't wake her. So I lift her out of her seat, carrying her easily- sweet thing hasn't put on a pound- and walk.

I love the ocean, especially from the pier. You can't see the land beyond you and the water is all there is. It's enormous, and can take you anywhere. And it smells brilliant. Holding Dawn, smelling the ocean is... completing and amazing.

I toss her far away from me, the loss of arms around her jerking her from sleep, form twisting, inarticulated scream ripped from her. I arch an eyebrow as she disappears beneath the black water, and light a cigarette.

She sputters to the surface, a soaked, pissed off kitten. "What the FUCK, Spike?" She's floundering a bit. Not really great at swimming. I'm watching her as she swims in to the pier, struggling to get a hand up. "You drunk son of a bitch!"

Quirking my lips at her, almost a sad smirk, I squat next to where she's clawing, and shove her under again. See if she'll do it. Fight like she should. She's taking a breath under the water, pulling it into her lungs, and she's pulling, hand over hand up my arm. Drawing in a deep breath, real air, choking, coughing, eyes wild. Just for good measure, I push her under again. It makes me uncomfortable, but I stay passive, and as soon as she fights to the surface again, I yank her up by her arm, then her shoulders back onto the pier.

She's still coughing up water, when I jerk her face to mine. Wrestling to bring air into her body. "Do you see what you're doing, kitten?" I ask. "You're breathing. You fought for every breath you took out there."

Her blue eyes are furious, and my world is burning, shooting flame at its servant, but she's silent. And listening, I can tell. "The living's hard, baby doll, and no ones gonna do it for you. But you had your taste of what the other would be like. And you fought for yourself." I can hear the relief in my voice, and if it were anyone else, I'd be embarrassed.

Her breathing is regular, but her eyes have cleared. My duchess nods once, then slams her fist into my jaw.

As I rub it, and look at her in bewilderment, she cradles her hand, rubbing her knuckles and shaking it out, gently. She looks up at me, and cracks a smile. A real smile. A real smile from a dripping wet, tangled brown hair, rainbow-underwear wearing, drenched pink hoodie, fifteen year old girl with baby blue bewitching eyes. My gorgeous human bit of sweetness is smiling at me.

"You owe me a pair of flip flops, you dumbass. Those were my favorite pair."

And with a flip of that sodden brown mess, she's walking back to the car, settin' her wet ass on the seat, like I told her not to-

"DAWN! Don't you get that seat wet!"

Her laugh taunts me, and I hear the engine turning over, and after a brief shuffle, "London Calling" getting cranked up. I laugh, relieved, and head back to my baby.


End file.
